


Blood

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Guilt, Internal Monologue, M/M, Minor Injuries, POV Derek, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 00:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1724231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a related note, copper claws hurt like a bitch. And Derek now officially hates birds. Especially ‘supposedly-mythical’, magical, angry birds who have a favourite past time of making werewolves their chew toys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood

When Derek comes to, Stiles is above him and covered in blood.

Not that the situation is anything new. Of course, it’s disgusting that it isn’t anything new. Frankly it shouldn’t happen at all, but it does anyway so he tries not to dwell on it.

He’s got bigger things to concentrate on, after all. Like the gaping hole in his side that the Gagana ripped into him not ten minutes ago. In all honesty, that was _kind_ _of_ topping the list of things that should be occupying his mind right now.

On a related note, copper claws hurt like a _bitch_. And Derek now officially hates birds. Especially ‘supposedly-mythical’, magical, angry birds who have a favourite past time of making werewolves their chew toys.

He feels strangely light, which is more than a little disconcerting because it’s been a long time since he’s felt anything save from that leaden feeling in his stomach and his heart and his bones, like it’s weighing him and keeping him anchored to the ground.For so long it’s been the only thing he’s been able to hold onto to keep him sane.

If anything, it should have done the opposite. Driven him mad with anger and guilt and all the things he’s pent up and left to fester over the years, and- oh.

Stiles is saying something. But Derek’s head feels fuzzy, like he’s got a pillow over his face, and the words don’t register as anything but strange sounds. If he could, Derek would open his mouth and tell him that, but right now it’s choked up with blood so he can’t.He thinks he might have a compacted lung (what with not being able to breathe and all) but it’ll heal soon so he tries his best not to move and disturb the process.

He thinks he can hear it in the distance (the Gagana, that is), and so he tilts his head to try and hear it better, and something cracks loudly as if it’s been set back into place, and then the world swims into focus once more.

“…such a bad idea,” Stiles is babbling. “Like, the worst idea you’re ever had- and you’ve got a pretty bad track record with ideas already, so that’s saying something-”

Derek grabs his wrist by way of warning, if only to get him to shut him up for the moment.

Stiles lasts all of twenty seconds.

“Man, that was one hell of an angry bird, huh?” he barks out a nervous laugh, leg jittering up and down. “And not even the fun kind of Angry Bird.”

Derek works very hard to roll his eyes, and it hurts, but Stiles laughs and relaxes a little so he supposes it’s worth the pain.

“And you made a mess of my new shirt,” he adds, almost accusingly. His lips are twitching upwards, but his heart is still too fast and his brow is furrowed in concerned.

Derek wants to reach up and rub the lines away, but he thinks his arm is dislocated, and he doesn’t have the energy yet to pop it back into place. He looks down at Stiles’ shirt and figures his own blood ruining it is better than Stiles’ blood ruining it. At least he can heal- Stiles can’t.

Okay, well, he can, but it’s not the same. It’s slow and dangerous and has a million other complications tied along with it. It doesn't count.

Really, Derek doesn’t know how humans manage to survive to adulthood.

Stiles’ hand is warm against his chest, like its holding him down and stopping him from drifting off again- like it’s taking place in his body as a new kind of anchor: one that Derek isn’t familiar with at all and although it’s something he’s thought about before, it’s more than a little frightening.

He thinks it might be the blood loss, or the adrenaline after (yet again) another life threatening situation, but he doesn’t stop his mind this time, when it wanders down that dangerous track.

He thinks about what it would be like to just let Stiles keep his hand there, to just accept what this is and ignore the consequences. To be able to be selfish for _just_ _once_ in his life and taking something he wants. To just let himself _enjoy_ something.

Because he’s spent so long drowning that the thought that (even for a moment) he could let someone drag him into calmer waters… it’s refreshing.

A few minutes later he’s healed sufficiently enough to stagger through the woods, leaning heavily against Stiles for support because his muscles haven’t kitted back together fully yet. They’re managing it fairly well (Stiles has only dropped him once) by the time they reach his house and he’s thankful to be somewhere safe and familiar.

He thinks he’ll be left alone after that, because he knows the problem isn’t solved and that the Gagana is still loose, and Scott’s probably getting his arm torn off right about now, but hes wrong about that.

“Where to?” Stiles asks, shrugging the shoulder that’s not propping Derek up.

Derek mulls it over, considers just falling into bed and letting sleep take over so he can heal quicker, but he’s sticky with blood and mud and who knows what else and he’d kind of like to not completely ruin his sheets (they’re new, okay, shut up), so he grunts out “Shower,” and they hobble awkwardly up the stairs.

Stiles leaves him at the bathroom door and before he reaches over to turn on the water, Derek can hear him muttering “Yeah, no, that way lay dragons,” as he leaves.

Derek smirks (though admittedly he’s not all that sure why) before turning his attention to cleaning himself up.

He stares down at the floor for a while, watching blood run down the drain, and wonders why his life is always like some crappy paranormal drama. At least if this were a sitcom things would be easier.

It takes a while, but by the time he’s done he’s mostly healed, although his joints feel stiff and sore. He can hear Stiles in the front room, murmuring to someone on the phone, and he yanks some clothes on before heading back downstairs.

Stiles catches sight of him just as he’s shoving his phone into his back pocket. “It’s dealt with,” he assures Derek, although it’s with a little smirk.

Derek _knows_ that smirk, seen it enough times to know that it’s his _I told you so_ smirk. “Shut up, Stiles,” he says, purely out of habit, and goes into the kitchen in search of food.

“Must really hurt your ego,” he remarks casually, following him, “not saving the day.”

“I never said I had to save the day,” he finds himself muttering before he even realises.

“Maybe not,” Stiles relents, “but you _did_ do your growly voice and your eyebrow thing and told us all to stay out of it because you had it under control.”

Derek sighs. “Your point?” he asks, attempting patience.

He hears fabric rustling and can tell that Stiles is shrugging behind him. “I’m just saying,” he says now, “that you don’t always have to do everything on your own. It’s okay to ask for help.”

“I was handling it.”

At that, Stiles laughs. So much so that he has to collapse into one of the chairs to stop himself from falling over. “You were two seconds away from becoming bird chow, dude, don’t even try to deny it.”

Derek doesn’t reply. Just busies himself with pouring out the world’s most boring bowl of cereal. He makes one for Stiles, too, and slides it across the table once he sits down. Stiles digs in immediately and with gusto, shoving cornflakes into his mouth at an alarming rate. If they hadn’t of known each other, Derek might be worried- but that’s just how Stiles eats everything.

It’s amusing, in a way, because it reminds him of how Laura used to eat. She’d indignantly claim it was a wolf thing, but everyone knew it wasn’t true because the rest of them ate just fine.

“You’re giving me the eyebrows again,” Stiles remarks through a mouthful of food. “The confused ones this time.”

Derek blinks. “You make it sound like you catalogue my eyebrows.”

“Oh yeah,” he nods enthusiastically, “I have charts and everything, detailing how and when you use each one as well.” He’s grinning, but there’s no lie in his words so Derek doesn’t know what to think.

He probably does have some kind of mental catalogue, though. Just like he probably has a list of all of Scott’s wounded faces, as well as all of Lydia’s pouts. The kid’s insane like that.

They finish their food in relative silence, and Derek grabs the bowls and sets them in the sink.

Stiles gets to his feet and hesitates. “Did you want me to go?” he looks unsure, glancing at the door like it’s going to offend him or something. “So you can, I don’t know, brood in the dark or do whatever you do when no one’s around.” He waves a hand in Derek’s direction.

Derek doesn’t brood. He doesn’t, okay? Especially not in the dark. He watches TV sometimes, and reads, and when he gets antsy he can go for a run or head to the lake for a swim to burn off any excess energy. He doesn’t _brood_. He tells Stiles as much.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, not looking like he believes it at all. “Like I’d actually believe you do _normal_ _people_ things.”

Derek gives up, going into the living room, Stiles trailing in after him. “So, it’s cool if I stay?” he asks tentatively, which is funny because on any given day Stiles is usually just barrelling his way to the couch like he owns the place anyway.

Derek pauses. It’s only for a moment, but it’s enough for his mind to go over all the reasons why he should just kick Stiles out now and tell him to go home. Then he shrugs. “You can stay if you want to.”

Stiles relaxes and smiles a little, before jumping onto the couch and stealing the remote from Derek’s hands. “You’re disgustingly boring; you’ll only choose the news.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the news,” Derek replies, reaching out to take the remote back. "And maybe I was going to choose something else." He was, in fact, going to switch onto the news but that's not the point.

Stiles doesn't even try arguing, and instead just shoos Derek's hands away and switches on to some stupid show with obnoxious jokes and canned laughter. Stiles laughs too, and Derek finds it oddly comforting.

He doesn’t think about it now, though, because he's thought about it too much already and Stiles had been right when he’d said that way lay dragons.

So he just enjoys the feeling of a warm body beside him and doesn’t move away when Stiles unconsciously shifts closer to him and lets their knees knock occasionally, because he can’t stay still for more than two seconds, even if it drives Derek insane.

And he doesn’t flinch when Stiles leans onto his shoulder, his eyes drifting close and his hand falling against Derek’s.

It feels inevitable, when they sit like this, that they’ll eventually get too close for Derek’s comfort and that something will happen. Times like this they feel like magnets drawing each other in until finally they’re where they’re supposed to be.

His mother always told him not to dwell on the inevitable.

So when Stiles falls asleep Derek doesn’t bother shaking him awake either.

But he does steal the remote back and change it to the 24-hour news channel.

 

 


End file.
